


Snap

by AnnieVH



Series: Don't Come Back [18]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Anti-Hook, F/M, Gen, Violence, anti-milah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-10-06 07:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10329794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: A confrontation with a biker has serious consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: past domestic abuse (including psychological, verbal and sexual), past child abuse, terrible parenting all around. Anti-Milah, anti-Malcolm. Rated mature just for safety.
> 
> Verse: Don’t Come Back, a Behind Closed Doors remix
> 
> Beta: MaddieBonanaFana

“You understand that I'm doing this as a favor to your father,” Felix said, sounding to Rumple like a gracious benefactor who had just handed out a pot of gold.

“Just as long as you understand you were not my first choice,” Rumple retorted, as he limped behind Felix. His new boss seemed to be walking twice the normal speed, just to see him struggle to keep up. The three flights of stairs had been the worst part, with Felix constantly looking down on him, urging, “Aren't you coming, Junior?”

“Your father is right.”

“About what?”

“You should learn to be grateful.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Rumple told him, in a mocking voice that elicited a smirk. Felix could always tell when he was getting under his skin and seemed to feel a sadistic sort of pleasure in watching the other man squirm.

Once they arrived on the third floor, Felix guided him to the door marked with his name in golden letters, the title “Business Administrator” underneath it. There was a waiting room without chairs, since no one important ever came to the office and Felix had learned from Malcolm that people who didn't matter shouldn't be made to feel welcome. Still, his father had given Felix an office in one of the nicest buildings in town and, while Rumple was still not very keen on the idea of working for him, at least his own desk didn't look nearly as depressing as he thought it would. His successor had left it organized and cleaned, there was a desktop computer that seemed reasonably updated, and, right behind his chair, a barred window that allowed natural light into the room. As far as terrible jobs went, this one could have been much worse.

“There, this is where you work,” Felix said. “And that is my office, but you don't go in there”

“Fine by me.”

“Do you know what an assistant does?”

He looked at Felix's gaunt face, wondering if the question was serious or just another condescending remark. Rumple constantly got the impression that Felix thought he was a little slow, or downright stupid, even though he'd never given him a reason to think so. Growing up, he'd wondered if this was what sibling rivalry felt like, quickly deciding that no, Felix was simply too toxic a person to be considered a brother and there was nothing healthy about their interactions.

Rumple had no idea where his father had found the other man, all he knew was that, one day, just before he turned twelve, Felix showed up at their doorstep, informing him, “I'm Felix. I work for your dad.” They were barely six years apart, but Rumple felt an immediate terror in knowing he'd have to deal with him from then on. There was something intimidating about Felix, even as a teenager, with those long, strong limbs and the scar on his right cheek.

His father had given him a job, dressed him in fine clothing, and coached him in what to say and how to deal with people in a more diplomatic way. Felix became his project, like domesticating a wild animal into a loyal guard dog. No matter how many suits Felix wore though, Rumple could never get over that first impression. This young man was something feral, and if he said the wrong word to him, he'd pounce. Malcolm must have seen that too, and decided it was useful.

Felix, for all his gratitude and slightly refined manners, didn't seem to care for the reputation that was whispered among Malcolm's tenants and enemies: his job had nothing to do with managing Gold's business, and a lot to do with terrifying people into compliance. Rumple would bet that he enjoyed it, or at least, he'd always seemed delighted to see fear in his eyes. Of all the bullies Rumple had had to deal with, Felix had to be the most persistent. He'd never physically hurt him, that would just be careless of him. Instead, he'd find a pressure point and squeeze it until he saw his victim break. Rumple distinctly remembered the other boy leaning over him, much larger and stronger, and whispering in his ear that he would burn all of his story books the next time he left the house. It'd been months before Rumple could leave the house without the _certainty_ that his precious library would be up in flames by the time he came back.

For a while, before he understood how these things worked and that Felix was already too old, he feared that Malcolm might adopt him, bringing him into their home and making him his older brother. Considering the way he constantly compared his only son to what Rumple could only assume was his favorite henchman, he still believed, in earnest, that Malcolm would have traded one boy for another, had he been given the chance. The only reason he didn't, other than Felix being an adult, was that Malcolm Gold had never wanted a child to begin with.

“No, Felix, why don't you explain it to me what an assistant does?” Rumple answered.

Felix probably picked up on the sarcasm, but decided it only proved that he was succeeding at being a pain in his ass, and explained, “You'll take care of my paperwork. You'll answer the phone. You'll bring me coffee.”

“How?”

“What?”

“You just said I'm not supposed to go inside your office.”

Felix paused. “ _Obviously_ there are exceptions.”

“If you say so.”

“And you will call me Mr. Greene from now on.”

Rumple repressed the urge to scoff. “I'll do that when I start.”

“You're starting today.”

“I'm starting at three. You're the one who decided to give me an early morning tour.” He consulted his watch. “And if you're done, I haven't even had breakfast and I have another job to get to.”

“Ah, yes. Your boxes.”

“Anything else I should know before I go?”

Felix eyed him from head to toe, looking for something to pick on.

“Daddy gave you a good suit. You should wear it.”

“I'll change.”

“And since you don't have a cellphone, I can add you and the brat to our plan.”

Rumple didn't appreciate the choice of words but then held his tongue. “Actually... that would be appreciated.”

“Yes, you'll like it,” Felix said, with a mean smile. “It's very cheap.”

He was trying to get him to take the bait, but he wasn't going to. Not today, anyway. Surely Felix was going to keep pushing his buttons until he exploded. Or quit. He clearly didn't want to deal with him any more than Rumple wanted to deal with Felix on a daily basis. If his personality wasn't enough to discourage him from taking the job, the shadiness of Felix's work should scare him away. Rumple had always assumed that what his father did was barely legal, and now he'd be stuck with the paperwork of his disreputable deals.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

Trying to cheer himself up, he thought of the breakfast to come. After dealing with Felix, he thought he'd earned the right to a small cup of coffee and a bagel at _Granny's,_ provided that these didn't exceed five dollars. He'd pick up his payment from Moe French before lunch and he'd feel much more secure with some money in his wallet. Not that he had any illusions it would last, but it'd keep them going until he got his first paycheck from Felix.

His thoughts had just turned to Belle, who should now be working at the diner, and who despised Felix just as much as he did, and who'd know better than to congratulate him on the new job, and how lovely it would be if they could share breakfast together without the threat of Malcolm Gold hanging over them – when he came to a halt in the middle of the street.

There was something parked just a few feet away.

A motorcycle.

A large, black motorcycle.

Just like...

 _Where is Bae?_ , he asked himself, though it was a ridiculous question. He knew where Baelfire was. He was at school, he'd dropped him off earlier himself. He'd seen Bae go into the building and the lad was clever enough to stay inside and not wander about or skip class. He was a good kid and his friends were good kids.

After school, he was going to take Bae home, where he'd be safe with Malcolm Gold's nasty reputation and top of the line security system. And a gun. Did father still have a gun? He'd always thought those things were a hazard, but right now he was willing to reconsider his view on America's unrestrained love for weaponry.

There didn't seem to be a rider anywhere, though. Rumple looked around, but couldn't spot a familiar face among the pedestrians, which didn't make his heart beat any slower. He had no idea how large her boyfriend's gang actually was – hell, he wasn't even sure what her boyfriend looked like! He'd seen Milah surrounded by seven or eight people at a time, as they left the court house, one of the men with an arm around her but his face turned the other way. With such a large group of friends, she could easily select the most inconspicuous of them and send them to Storybrooke.

Would she be that stupid to send someone over on a motorcycle, though? Rumple wasn't sure. And, to be honest, he didn't care. All he wanted was to make sure Bae was still at school where he'd left him. He turned around, forgetting all about breakfast and Felix and Belle, and picked up a pace in the other direction.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a mistake in the last chapter that has been rectified. As stated in POINTLESS (earlier in this series), Rumple doesn't know the name of Milah's boyfriend so it made no sense to refer to him as Jones. My bad!

Keeping himself from becoming hysterical was the hard part. If the last year had taught Rumple anything it was that people don't like to deal with you when you're hysterical, even if you had a point. The last time he'd come to Bae's school feeling this agitated, he'd made such a fuss that security had been called, thus attracting more attention to himself (and his bags and his urgency) than he'd have liked.

This time, he kept that in mind and approached Mother Superior's assistant with as much calmness as he could muster and asked to speak to her. Quickly, if possible, it was a matter of importance. The nun still gave him a look-over that was full of suspicion, noticing the fidgeting of his hands on the cane, and asked him to sit and wait a moment.

He did as he was told, playing the part of a rational human being who was not a threat to anyone, despite the fact that his heart felt like it was ready to jump out of his mouth. Five minutes later, he was allowed into Mother Superior's office. Without giving a lot of details, he explained that there was an urgent matter that he had to talk to his son about, and yes, he understood that class had _just_ started but it would only take a moment. If she could only be so kind and fetch him?

Rumple could tell that Mother Superior was beginning to develop a certain animosity towards him after being asked to bend so many rules, but she knew better than to argue with the Golds. She returned with Baelfire ten minutes later, uniformed and befuddled by being called to the Principal's office for no reason. Rumple could finally feel his breathing going back to a normal pace. It was all an overreaction, thank god. Bae was here, safe and sound.

His eyes went from his father to the Principal. “What's going on?”

“I'll give you two a minute,” Mother Superior said, walking out of her office.

Rumple got up from his chair. “Hey, son.”

He could tell Baelfire was becoming suspicious. “Why are you here?”

“I'm sorry. I got- I wanted to make sure you're fine-”

“Are we moving again?” he asked, and Rumple could hear genuine fear in his voice. Of course he'd be scared. The last time he'd been plucked out of class like this, his father had come to fetch him with their bags already packed, and then shoved him on a bus to another city.

“No, no, son, it's fine. It's not that.”

“I don't want to move, dad, you said two months-”

“We're not moving, Bae. I just had to make sure you were safe.”

“Why?”

That was a complicated question. Rumple had learned to hate it over the years.

_Why are you crying?_

_Why are you hurt?_

_Why won't you leave her?_

_Why do we have to move again?_

There were things children shouldn't have to deal with. If it was up to him, he'd have allowed his son to live in blissful ignorance for as long as he possibly could. In moments like these, Rumple hated Milah. Even the good memories he had of her were tainted. She'd made his life unbearable, but she'd completely destroyed any chance for their son to have a normal childhood.

Trying not to sound too pessimistic, Rumple said, “I saw a motorcycle today and I thought-”

Bae had made the leap before he even had the chance to finish.

“She's here.”

“It's just a motorcycle, Bae,” he said, quickly. “I just wanted to be sure everything was alright with you.”

“But you think-”

“I think we ought to be careful. That is all. There's no reason to move or do anything as hasty. At least in this town, your grandfather can keep us safe.”

Bae nodded. “I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I haven't talked to anyone.”

“Good. That's good. You know how I am, I'm probably being paranoid.”

“You don't really believe that.”

Rumple stared at him. “I'm not letting your mother kick us out of town again, Bae.”

“You can't really stop it from happening,” he said. “If she shows up-”

“Then I'll talk to the Sheriff.”

Bae slumped. Rumple couldn't really blame him for the mistrust. Great load of good the police had done in the past.

“We're safe, Bae, I promise. We'll be fine here-”

“I need to go back to class,” Bae said, looking tired of his comforting lies.

“Yes, you go.”

He tried to give him a hug, but Baelfire opened the office door before he had the chance.

Mother Superior came in once he'd left, asking if all was fine and if there was anything else she could do for him. She still didn't look too pleased with the way he'd forced her to start her morning but it was a little soothing to know that that woman was in charge of keeping his child safe. He doubted anyone, even Milah, could work their way around her strict book of rules without the help of Malcolm Gold.

Rumple thanked her for her flexibility and apologized once again on his way out.

As he made his way back to main street, Rumple was hyperaware of everyone around him. He didn't think Milah would follow him to Storybrooke, since the town carried as many bad memories for her as it did for him. She'd never consider it a refuge. But if she did get suspicious... then she'd be clever about it. She wouldn't send the same man to check the town out, that'd have been careless of her if she was planning to snatch the boy again.

But the motorcycle... he couldn't explain that. He could've swore it was the same one, though that could be his memory playing tricks on him. The last time he'd seen it had been over a month ago, and he hadn't exactly been looking at it, but rather at the mirrored helmet that the biker was wearing, right into the reflection of his own, frightened eyes. The voice that came from underneath the helmet was muffled but the words had been clear.

“If a father ceases to exist, then a boy goes back to his mother. Isn't that right?”

Milah had already tried to take Bae three times and they'd been forced to move neighborhoods and even cities too many times for Rumple to be able to feel safe anymore, but it wasn't until the biker threatened him that he finally understood the helplessness of his situation. Milah was clever and she'd gotten away with hurting him before.

“If I were you, I'd agree to share custody,” the biker said, above the roar of his motorcycle. “That way, everyone's safe.”

Then, the biker sped away, leaving him shaking like a leaf in the middle of the street. It took him about ten seconds to understand what he had to do: he had to turn around and run back home to pack, and then he had to get Bae and get the hell out of the city. Again.

Not for a moment he was fooled by the offer in the other man's threat. Sharing their son hadn't worked before when Milah had promised to make an effort, and it wouldn't work now that she was furious. In all likelihood, she'd run away with the boy the first chance she got. He could never trust Milah again where Bae was concerned.

Living like nomads was not an option either. They needed protection from someone Milah was scared of, someone she wouldn't dare cross because she knew there'd be consequences. And he could only think of one person who fit that category.

The lesser of two evils.

No, she wouldn't dare come to Storybrooke with the threat of Malcolm Gold hovering over her head. She'd had her life ruined by that man before, and though she assigned most of the blame for her misery to her now ex-husband, she knew a healthy portion of the blame lied with that despicable man. If she did send someone over, and someone Rumple would recognize, it might have nothing to do with Bae and all to do with _him_.

The last time she'd tracked them down, she didn't try to grab Bae a fourth time. She'd tried to intimidate Rumple into doing what she wanted, and like a scared little mouse, he had coward back to Storybrooke where daddy could protect him. Milah had never made a secret out of how little she thought of him as a man, and perhaps she had a point. Men don't run. He did.

The flower shop came into view exceedingly colorful and bright, contrasting with the gray memories in his head. He'd agreed to pick up his money before lunch but might as well get this over with.

Thankfully, Moe wasn't working in the shop that morning and Jacques was the only one at the counter. His cheerfulness was more than welcome in a morning like this.

“Oh! _Monsieur_ Gold! What a surprise!”

“Morning, Jacques. I came for-”

“Gus! Gus! Come 'ere!”

Another kid emerged from the back, around the same age as Jacques, but with a heavier frame. Despite his coworker's urgent tone, his steps were slow, as he was already used to Jacques' excitement over small matters.

Jacques pointed at him. “That's the gentleman 'oo covered for you!”

Gus gave him a shy wave. “'sup?”

“Hi, Gus.”

“Gus is the _chauffeur_ , when we do deliveries,” Jacques told him. “ _Mais_ I told 'im, 'e should get some tips from you, _Monsieur_. Gus crashed the van once.”

“I bumped it,” Gus protested, though in a mumble. “Moe wasn't even mad.”

“We were so scared, weren't we, Gus?”

“I'm sorry, Jacques, but I'm in a hurry,” he cut in, as tactfully as he could. “Did Mr. French give you a-”

“Ah, _oui_! _L'argent!”_

The boy produced an envelope from under the counter where the word GOLD had been scribbled. He might be imagining things, but Rumple could swear there was contempt in Moe's handwriting. He counted the money. It was all in there, enough to get them going for a week or so.

“Thank you, Jacques. You boys have a good day.”

“ _De rien, Monsieur_ Gold _._ ”

He turned to leave, then something occurred to him. If there was someone who'd know the answer to it, it'd be Jacques.

“Hey, uhn, does anyone in town own a bike?”

Gus hummed as he thought. Jacques, though, was staring at him with a look that Rumple had learned all about the week before: he was lost in translation.

“ _Vélo_?” he finally asked. “You want to buy a _vélo_ , _Monsieur_ Gold?”

“Buy- no, what? What is a _vélo_?”

“ _Bicyclette_?”

“Motorcycle.”

“ _Moto_!”

“Yes! Who has a _moto_?”

“For sale?”

Rumple fought the urge to slam his head on the counter. After one week of going back and forth with Jacques and his Frenglish, he didn't think he could do it again.

Gus answered, “I know a couple of people. Why?”

“I saw one today. Black, really shiny. Big. I was wondering who it belonged to.”

“What model was it?”

Rumple scratched his head. He'd never cared much more motorcycles. He knew cars and had a mild interest in engines, but bikes were too flashy for his taste.

“I wouldn't know.”

“Like, Harley Davidson, Yamaha, Honda-”

Jacques rolled his eyes. “'e's obsessed, _Monsieur_ Gold.”

“I don't know. Which of these are black?”

“They... all... can be black.”

“Of course they can. Stupid question.”

“Sean's is red, though,” Gus said, barely containing his envy. “I guess Mr. Nolan still has a black Honda, but his girlfriend doesn't like him riding it anymore.” Then, his face turned red. “You should ask Ruby. She knows everyone.”

“Ooooh! _Ta louve_!” Jacques said, in a sweet voice, and then blew a kiss. Gus elbowed him on the ribs and muttered for him to “Shuttup!” before he scurried away. “Oh, c'mon, Gus! Gus! _Je rigole juste_!”

“I'll go ask Ruby, then. Thank you, Jacques.”

“ _De rien_. Send my regards to _Mademoiselle_ Belle.”

Right, Belle was nor working at the diner. Perhaps the morning wouldn't be a complete catastrophe. He could still go to _Granny's_ and have his late breakfast before heading to the pawnshop. Not like another thirty minutes would make much of a difference. And he needed it. He needed to sit somewhere quiet with a cup of coffee and warm food. It would help get his mind back on track. He could talk to Ruby, too, ask her if she'd seen anything out of the ordinary. Gus had a point, that girl knew everything and everyone in Storybrooke, or so Belle told him.

After breakfast, he'd stop by the Sheriff's Department and have a conversation with Emma Swan, or Deputy Nolan. They seemed like reasonable people who wanted to help, unlike most police officers he'd talked to. If he told them about the motorcycle, they might actually look into it. Perhaps there was no reason to be afraid just yet-

He saw what was parked in front of the diner and his blood went cold.

It was following him.

It was _definitely_ following him.

This had to be Milah, stalking him again and playing games with his mind.

And this time, the biker was there, waiting. The same man. He hadn't seen his face before, but it couldn't be anyone else. He had the same build. Even the clothing was identical to what he'd worn when threatening him: boots, black jeans, and a leather jacket that made him look bulkier and stronger. Limp or no limp, Rumple would never stand a chance in a physical confrontation.

He didn't have the helmet on this time, revealing a handsome, unshaven face, maybe a couple of years younger than himself. This was the kind of man Milah had always wanted him to be: someone who exuded confidence and masculinity, who was ready for whatever life would throw at him because he feared nothing. It was enough to incite a sting of jealousy.

Milah must be very pleased with her new choice of boyfriend.

He should've taken Bae with him that morning, instead of leaving him at school. Leaving town was not an option, but he could've taken him home, where his father could keep them safe.

Where he could hide like a coward, so afraid of what Milah might do to him that neither him nor his son would ever be able to live a normal life.

He couldn't allow that. He'd promised Baelfire that this would be their ticket to a fresh start in Glasgow.

The biker, waiting patiently on his motorcycle, stopped fumbling with the helmet in his hands and looked at him. And smiled.

Rumple felt his heart hammering in his chest.

He had to solve this himself.

He had to be brave.

Swallowing the taste of fear in his mouth, he took a step forward.

“Let me guess,” said the biker, his voice smooth and easy, a little too arrogant to be considered friendly. He couldn't remember Jones' voice but the cadence was definitely similar. “You like bikes.”

Rumple stared at him, at a loss of words.

“Either that, or you think I'm really cute,” he continued, now grinning at him, bearing his teeth. “And if that's the case, I'm flattered, but I have a girlfriend.”

He tried not to, but the thought of Milah in that stranger's arms came to his mind. She was happy. Happier than she'd been as his wife.

“What do you want?” Rumple asked, his voice barely audible.

The other man shrugged. “What do _you_ want?”

His tone was a mockery. Rumple felt anger burning somewhere out of reach, where it usually stayed, so that it could consume him and do no harm to others.

“I'm not leaving.”

The biker frowned, amused by that response. He even chuckled. “Sorry, what?”

“You heard me. I'm putting my foot down. I'm done running.”

“Good for you, I suppose?”

“You're going to leave town and tell her that.”

They stared at each other. Rumple wished he looked nearly as confident as he was trying to sound. His voice was shaking just as much as his hands.

“You see, I'm waiting for a bagel.”

“ _Screw_ your bagel, just-” he stopped himself. Don't be hysterical. Don't be the crazy one. “Jut _leave_. _Please_!”

When the biker dismounted, he all but jumped back.

“Listen, why don't we-”

“Stay away from me.”

“Buddy, you're agitated and you don't want to cause a scene.”

Rumple swallowed. No, he didn't want that... but if the other option was to let himself be intimidated, he'd have no other choice.

A heavy hand rested on his shoulder. “If you come with-”

He took a step back and almost lost his balance. The hand on his shoulder clutched him tighter.

“Don't touch me!”

The biker took a step closer. “It's okay, I just-

“I said – back – _off_!”

On instinct, he swayed the cane towards the other man, making him jump back. “Whoa, easy!”

He should've stopped then, when the biker – Milah's lover, the man who'd threatened him, the man who was going to take his son away – had backed off, but he didn't. He swayed the cane the other way and, this time, the handle connected with the biker's temple, sending him tumbling over his motorcycle. The sound of metal hitting the pavement was deafening and, once it died, the street stood in absolute silence.

Rumple barely had time to feel anything – panic, because violence had consequences, and pride because he'd stood his ground – when he heard the Sheriff's shrieking voice right behind him, “August! Oh my god!”

She came running out of the diner. Rumple stepped back to let her through and dropped the cane on the ground as he did so, like a man getting rid of a murder weapon.

“It's okay, Sheriff, it's-” he tried.

The Sheriff all but shouted, “It is not okay! What _the hell_ do you think you're doing?” and knelt down to check on the other man, who was looking pained and disoriented on the ground. When he turned his face to look at Emma, a drop of blood slid down his temple.

Belle came out of the diner calling his name, “Rumple! What's going on?”

Ruby was following right behind her. Other patrons had pressed their faces to the windows, trying to see what the fuss was all about.

“What happened?” she asked, once she was by his side.

“He attacked me!” he said, and he didn't like how shaky his voice sounded.

The biker protested, “What?! He's insane, Emma! I was _talking_ to him!”

“He's with Milah!”

“Oh...” Belle sighed as if she understood what had happened better than anyone. To his surprise, she took his hand in hers. “Oh, Rumple... no...”

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Mr. Gold!” Emma shouted, looking furious as she helped the other man up. “This is August Booth. He's my boyfriend. And you better have a very good reason for _beating him up_ with a cane!”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of child abuse.

Tea wasn't going to make any of this better, but Belle set out to make some anyway, claiming it would help him calm down. Rumple sat on one of the stools by the kitchen island, head in his hands, doubting very much that a simple cup of tea would have any effect on his nerves.

“You heard Emma,” Belle told him, after ten minutes of silence. “You don't have to worry about August and I'm sure you can work something out regarding the payment-”

“With the man I just assaulted with a cane?” Rumple asked, without emerging from behind his hands.

Belle didn't like the sound of defeat in his voice. He barely said a word as they walked back to Gold's house but it was clear that the whole episode had left him shaken.

“The dent wasn't that bad,” she said.

“On the bike or on his head?”

“Rumple-”

“Not that it matters, since I'll have to pay for both. God knows how.”

Belle stopped asking questions after that. Sometimes, there was nothing to be said and life was just terrible, she knew that. Just the week before, she'd been just as inconsolable. There was no point in trying to cheer him up, so she brought him a cup of tea in silence and took the stool at his right.

Rumple fumbled with the handle on the teacup, but dropped his hand on the granite surface before he could pick it up. He didn't want tea. He wanted to be swallowed by the earth and sink into oblivion, where these problems couldn't find him. When Belle's gentle voice tried to probe him to drink the tea, he pretended not to hear it, but he didn't fight it when she held his hand. She'd done the same at the police station and it had been, by far, her most comforting gesture.

She'd had no reason to go with him, but she did nonetheless, offering to put in a good word, if need be. Deputy Nolan, who'd been one of the _dozens_ of people to watch the scene, had been instructed by the Sheriff to take him back to the station and keep him there until she was back from the hospital. Rumple feared he'd be cuffed and shoved into a patrol car, but the Deputy must have seen just how horrified he looked and instead walked him and Belle to the building.

“So you're a tough guy?” Nolan asked, once they were in front of his computer and he was ready to take his statement. Rumpel couldn't tell if that was mockery or a friendly jest until he said, “Just kidding, don't worry. Why don't you explain to me what happened?”

What happened was that he was a scaredy-cat. He'd allowed Milah to get inside his head, _again_. Only, this time, instead of running away, he'd tried to fight back. How ironic that he managed to hurt the wrong man in the process. Where was all that courage when he needed to protect his son?

 _You truly can't do anything right_...

He'd made a mistake, and he told the Deputy so without going into details. Nolan typed in his computer the vague lines that Rumple gave him and then offered him a glass of water because he looked “a little shaken”. Despite the uncharacteristic gentleness, it was a relief to watch him step away.

He was going to need a lawyer. Tina was miles away and he'd feel like he was taking advantage of her good nature by asking her to drive from Boston, but it might come to that. He doubted a town as small as that had a public defender on call. And someone would have to pick Bae up from school and tell him why his father was not home yet. How would the boy react to knowing he was now behind bars? And what if Milah got a hold of that information somehow and tried to-

The turmoil of his thoughts must have shown on his face because, suddenly, Belle was holding his hand.

“It'll be fine,” she told him. “Emma is reasonable.”

“You should go back to work,” he told her. “You don't have to be here.”

“I'm not working. I start tomorrow.”

He probably should have insisted, or at least let go of her hand, but he didn't.

Not then, not now. If Malcolm walked in, that would only fuel his imagination and make things worse for the both of them but, right now, he'd rather take the risk. It felt like Belle was the only thing keeping him sane.

“I screwed up,” he said, hand still in hers.

She squeezed it slightly before saying, “We all do, sometimes.”

“I thought he was-” he started, but didn't dare go on. He thought he was being attacked, when it turned out that man was only dismounting his bike and trying to calm him down because he was behaving like a crazy person. Because he saw a bike and that was terrifying to him. Finally, he let go of Belle's hand to press the corners of his eyes. “God, I'm losing it.”

“You know...” Belle started, but didn't finish.

He looked at her with red, tired eyes.

“You'd tell me if I was overstepping, yes?”

“Sure,” he answered, knowing that it was probably a lie. He'd ever been good at setting boundaries with other people.

“Dr. Hopper has an office near your father's shop and he's really good at what he does-”

“The Sheriff told me.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

Emma Swan had been rather nice to him, all thing considered. Rumple wished she hadn't. He wished the heat of frustration that he could feel emanating from her would build into a fire and then explode in his face. If only she had slammed her fist on her desk and demanded “What were you thinking? Are you insane?” and then threatened to throw him in jail for being a foolish, impulsive idiot, then he might have had several problems in his hands, but at least he'd know how to react to it. Looking that frustrated woman in the eye as she tried her best to do her job with a leveled head was much harder.

The only time he'd caught a glimpse of her temper was when he dared to ask, “Is your boyfriend alright?”

She snapped back, “Of course he's not, he's got three stitches and a dent on his bike. He freaked out all the way to the hospital.” And then, she surprised him by saying, “But I convinced him not to press charges, as long as you pay for the repairs and the medical bill.”

Emma Swan was a clever woman. She could read the situation and get to her own conclusions, so when he started explaining what had happened in the same vague terms he'd given Deputy Nolan, the wheels in her head began whirring away, filling in the blanks.

“That woman must be a real piece of work,” she told him, “but I can't have you beating up every biker you see.”

“I know, I'm not a-”

“You should've come to me and let me handle it.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn't you?”

He'd shaken his head, at a loss. He couldn't translate his thoughts into words. It had something to do with fourteen years of helplessness, of knowing that Milah could get away with violence. And then there was the way the policemen had looked at him with suspicion when he'd first taken Baelfire in to press charges. And the way their suspicion had turned into a condescending sneer when Bae confirmed that no, his dad hadn't given him a black eye, it had been his mother.

“I'm sorry, Sheriff Swan, it won't happen again,” he told her, knowing full well an apology would account for very little.

Emma Swan thought so too.

“I don't need you to say you're sorry, I need a guarantee.” She scribbled on a piece of paper. “This is Dr. Hopper's address. I strongly recommend you stop by on your way home.”

“I will. You have my-”

“And by that I mean you should go home _now_ and cool your head.”

He tried to protest with a weak, “I have work to-”

“This is not negotiable, Mr. Gold. You either go home with a warning, or you cool down in a cell.”

That had done the trick. She'd gone as far as to ask Belle to make sure he did as she said, and while he should be offended to have been imposed a nanny, he was actually glad that he didn't have to be alone now.

“-And anyway, I agree with her,” Belle was saying, though he wasn't paying attention.

“I'm sorry?” he asked.

“I said that it speaks to her trust that she let you go with a warning, Emma isn't always forgiving. Though she is a good judge of character.”

Rumple replied with a neutral sound. He doubted Emma Swan cared for his character, especially after he'd caned her boyfriend. She had probably released him with so little fuss because she didn't want to have to deal with Malcolm Gold more than it was strictly necessary.

“And that I agree with her, you should call Archie. It's good to have someone to talk to. I mean, you did go to school together-”

“What if she sues me for custody again?”

Belle didn't have to ask for clarification.

“She's not going to,” she said.

“She will. And when she does-”

“ _If_ she does, it's going to take more than one isolated event to convince a judge you're an unfit parent.”

He shook his head, unconvinced.

“I mean,” Belle said, “I don't know what she did, but you have that restraining order for a reason. No judge is going to overlook that.”

“She punched him.”

Belle went quiet.

Rumple didn't look at her. However it was that she took this piece of information he'd blurted at her, he didn't want to know, he'd dealt with enough pity looks and judgment for a lifetime.

“Right in the eye,” he said, pointing at the right side of his face. “And she's strong, too. Bae couldn't open that eye for a good three days. But that was only once.”

“Once or not,” Belle said, “that sounds horrible.”

Rumple sighed, muttering, “She can be much worse.”

In the silence that followed, she asked, “Do you want to tell me?”

He almost did. In the last year, he'd repeated that same story, composed of selected events from his marriage and a carefully constructed depiction of Milah's character, to several policemen, judges, and principals, and every time he did he hoped it would be the last time. There was so much ugliness in his past that he'd rather take it to his grave. However, part of him wanted to say it again, only this time with the intention of getting this heaviness off his chest. Even Tina, who'd been the closest thing he'd had to a friend in years, had listened to him with a more proactive state of mind, as if their history were only a means to achieve an end.

Belle didn't want to give him a solution, nor could she. All she wanted was to understand.

The front door slammed before he even had the chance to open his mouth.

Belle jumped off her stool. Rumple didn't bother to. He knew his father's ill temper would reach them eventually and made no mention of getting up. When Malcolm stormed into the kitchen, Belle even tried, “Good morning, Mister-”

“No,” he barked at her. “ _You_ are getting out of my house, I'll deal with you once I'm done with him.”

Belle looked at Rumple, who shrugged at her.

“I was there, Mr. Gold, it wasn't as-”

“Did I stutter?” the old man snapped. “Out! We can talk about your father's ridiculous shop some other time! And _you_!” he turned his attention to Rumple. His son looked over his shoulder, to exhausted to care. “You better have a really good explanation as to why people are saying my son is a maniac.”

“You see,” Belle jumped in, again, “the situation was-”

Malcolm groaned to the ceiling. “This is unbelievable! Are you both deaf?”

“It's fine, Belle,” Rumple said, reaching for his cane and getting up. “Thank you for the tea.”

She looked at him, and then at his father, who was now pointing at the door.

“I'll be outside, then. In case anyone needs me.”

“I've already hired another maid, sweetie,” he snarled, as she passed him by. “I don't see what else we'd need you for.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was almost funny how Malcolm's breathing was louder than the clacking of Belle's heels on the hardwood floor, as if his father made a conscious effort to project his anger to warn him that he was in trouble. Thinking back on his childhood, Rumple could see a smaller, younger version of himself standing in the same kitchen, shaking like a leaf as his father started to huff. Right now, though, he considered what he was feeling and found himself strangely hollow. Like the threat of his father's anger had no effect on him whatsoever. When had that happened?

 _When you learned what real anger looks like_ , he thought. Shouting was as far as his father would ever get, and Rumple had endured much worse than that. He could take it. Still, he waited for the front door to open and close, taking Belle away from the blast zone, before he faced his father's temper.

“You didn't have to be so unpleasant,” he said, not even looking over his shoulder.

“Excuse me?” Malcolm demanded, challenging his son to say that again.

Rumple remained quiet and Malcolm moved into the kitchen, coming into view, his face red, every wrinkle he'd gained in ten years becoming more pronounced. It occurred to him that time had been kinder with his father than with himself. No, no, it had nothing to do with kindness. It was money. It was the fact that he could lead a life with no consequences, bribing his way out of problems and bullying people into compliance.

On the other hand, Rumple looked and felt like an old man. He'd aged twice as much as his father in the same period of time. He hadn't been given the privilege of avoiding his problems. Quite the opposite, he'd been trapped inside a tiny apartment with the worst of them.

“I was having lunch with the Mayor,” he said. Rumple raised dulled eyes at him. “We're talking business, as usual, and I thought it was going as well as expected when, _suddenly_ , she receives a call from her daughter. Can you imagine what that call was about?”

“No.”

Malcolm smacked both hands on the kitchen island. For the first time, Rumple startled.

“About some lunatic _with a cane_ who beat up the Sheriff's boyfriend for looking at him the wrong way,” Malcolm said. “And then, _of course_ , she relays the news to me and asks, like the cunning bitch that she is, 'Doesn't your son walk with a cane?'”

“I didn't beat him up,” Rumple said, his voice soft where his father's was raging. “I only hit him once.”

Malcolm rubbed his face. “Dear god, I was hoping they'd have gotten it wrong. Sounds like the kind of thing Cora would say to gain the upper hand, and it's not like the Sheriff is particularly clever-”

“You called the Sheriff?” Rumple cut in, affronted for the first time. “Why would you-”

“Because I had to know whether I'd be owing the Mayor a favor any time soon for keeping my son out of jail.”

“I wasn't even arrested.”

“If you beat a man-”

“I _hit_ him!”

“Why?”

Rumple went quiet. He could see himself explaining this to Belle – or rather, he could see himself taking his secrets to his grave, but if he had to choose someone to confess them to, it would've been her. He'd almost done it moments before. But not to his father. He hadn't earned his trust or given any indication that he'd treat his past with anything but judgment and callousness.

Faced with silence, Malcolm's face went from red to purple so fast Rumple wondered if he was about to have a heart attack.

“What, you spent thirty years being a pushover but suddenly you- where do you think you're going?”

Rumple grabbed his cane and got up. “I don't have to listen to this.”

“Don't give me an attitude, Junior.”

“I'm not giving you an attitude, I just have nothing to say to you.”

He pushed the kitchen door open and Malcolm's voice came thundering behind him, making him come to a halt.

“ _Young man,_ if you wish to have a roof over your and _your son's_ heads tonight, you _better_ not leave this room _or so help me-_ ”

Rumple slammed the door so loudly his father's voice died.

“Fine! Let's hear it.”

“What?”

“Are you mad at me, daddy?” he asked, in a sweet voice. “Did I disappoint you? Should I go to my room without supper and think about what I've done?”

Malcolm stared at him.

“Whatever it is, say it fast. I still have work to do.”

Silence.

Then, “You ungrateful little shit.”

It took Rumple all of his might not to smirk at Malcolm's fury.

“I welcome you back-”

“ _Welcome_ me back?”

“You and your son out of concern-”

Rumple rolled his eyes. “I can't believe this.”

“And you stand there, acting high and mighty-”

“You don't give a damn about me or my son! The only reason you allowed me back home is because it amuses you to bully me around-”

“Why would I waste time and money just to bully-”

“ _I don't know, dad_! _You tell me_!” he shouted.

Malcolm gave him another huff, but at least he stopped talking. Rumple allowed himself a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts. He knew this was going to happen eventually. The fact that they'd managed to live under the same roof for seventeen years without ever blowing up like that was a miracle, mostly due to Rumple eagerness to please. With that out of the way, he knew it was only a matter of time before living together proved impossible.

He should probably think of Bae now and make an effort to come to an understanding with his father, but at the moment, he couldn't remember why he was here, in this horrible house with that horrible man instead of somewhere else. Anywhere else.

“This is pointless,” Malcolm finally said. “You're only here because you need my help and that is what I'm doing. I'm helping you. You've made it _very clear_ that you despise me and wouldn't be here unless you had another option, which you don't. If you still want me to help you, then you better explain what the hell happened this morning because it makes no sense to me.”

Rumple wished Malcolm would've continued to scream. There was a growing urge inside of him saying that he should go upstairs and pack his bags, but it was hard to listen to it when Malcolm put things in perspective. This wasn't a tearful reunion, after all, it was an exchange of favors and the best deal he could get at the moment.

“I lost my temper,” he explained, “because Sheriff Swan's boyfriend is a biker. So is Milah's new boyfriend. I made a mistake.”

To his surprise, Malcolm chuckled. “I should've expected this.”

“Expected what?”

“You still carry a torch for that girl.”

Rumple went quiet. The deduction managed to miss the point completely, but it was not far from the truth.

“Of course you do,” he sneered. “It serves us right, I suppose. I thought you might ask to renew our contract once your job was done, but it seems like you'll be crawling back to that girl long before that.”

“This wasn't jealousy.”

“Looks like it.”

“But it wasn't. And I'm not about to crawl back to Milah,” he added, more to himself than to his father. “What we had is over.”

“What was that then?” he asked, a little smirk still on his lips. “Did you decide to take revenge on all bikers?”

“It doesn't matter. All you care about is whether it will happen again, and it won't. And the Sheriff and I talked things through, you shouldn't have to call anyone for favors on my behalf. Is that all?”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, his expression turning calculating. “You're not telling me something.”

Rumple scoffed. “When I first came to you for help, you laughed at my misery and made it very clear you couldn't care less what happened to me or my son, unless you could benefit from it.”

“That's not what happened.”

“And now you want me to trust you?” he continued, ignoring his father's remark. “Yes, there are things I'm not telling you. Many things. Why should I? I don't need to hear you say 'I told you so'.”

Malcolm drummed his fingers on the kitchen island. After a moment, he said, “If you didn't want to hear it, then you should've made better choices. I told you that going with her was a mistake and that you were going to regret it, but you did it anyway and that's on you.”

“I didn't go with her, you kicked me out, there's a difference.”

“I kicked _her_ out, you chose to follow her.”

“And you were more than happy to see the back of me.”

“I wasn't _happy_ , Junior,” Malcolm said, repeating that word as if it offended him. “I was _angry_. My only son decided to leave and be with some girl he barely knew to have a bastard child he was clearly unsuitable to raise.”

Rumple stared at his father. “Oh... I see. You missed me, your _only son_ , so terribly _much_ , that you decided to make my life hell for the next four years.”

“I didn't make-”

“You kicked me out of the house and cut me off completely, despite the fact that I had a wife and a baby to look after. Then, as if that wasn't enough, you told your tenants not to hire me or Milah. But I don't have to tell you how hard things got because you know that. You kept an eye out and, the moment we were desperate enough, your lawyer swept in with a bellow-market offer and you killed two birds with one stone: you got the pawnshop for practically nothing, and you kicked us out of your life completely. What kind of father does that to his _only son_?”

His eyes were filled with tears and Rumple wished they weren't. He didn't want to look weak or even sad. He wasn't sad. He was burning with anger. His father, though, was staring at him through impassive, dry eyes. He didn't try to justify himself, nor did he say he was sorry. Not that Rumple would've forgiven him if he did. The man was a stone, though, and he didn't move a finger or say a word until Rumple told him, “I knew this wasn't going to work.”

“What wasn't?” Malcolm asked. If his voice was softer, Rumple didn't notice.

“Coming back here. This is pointless.”

Rumple turned around and left the kitchen. To his surprise, his father followed him into the hallway.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm going to pack.”

“Why do you always have to be so dramatic, Junior?”

He labored down the hallway with quick steps so that his father wouldn't reach him or block his way. His ankle protested painfully with every step but he didn't care.

“Dramatic, I'm always dramatic,” he said, breathlessly, reaching the stairs. “I'm never angry, I'm never sad, I'm just overreacting, as far as you're concerned.”

“You want to feel validated?” Malcolm shouted, right behind him. “ _Fine_! Then just tell me how you're feeling and we can move on-”

“ _I feel fucking exhausted_!” he shouted, so loud that Malcolm was taken aback, almost slipping down the step he was on. Rumple looked down on him from three steps up, enjoying the shock on his father's face. “I'm exhausted because of Milah and I'm exhausted because I have nowhere to run! I hate your house and your town and, most of all, _you_! I have no idea why I thought I could come back and pretend that things were going to be different-”

“You want to put the blame on me?” Malcolm roared, covering the distance between them to look his son in the eyes. “Then put the blame on me, if it makes you feel better! But I'm not the reason your marriage didn't work, or that you can't look after your own son-”

“What's going on?”

Both men looked over the banister. Belle had walked back in and was staring at them with alarmed eyes.

Malcolm immediately told her to go back outside, but Rumple just continued to climb the stairs. He wasn't about to do this in front of her. With what was left of his breath, he went straight to his room and started looking for his bag. Not five seconds later, his father came in.

“You should've helped me,” he told him, not giving him the chance to say a word. “You should've sought me out but you didn't spare a single thought for us in ten years.”

“Yes, yes, I'm a horrible human being,” Malcolm said, dismissive. “You were very clear about that. But I'm the horrible human being who's giving you a house and a job.”

“I don't care.”

“Where do you think you're going to go?”

“I don't care! Just as long as it's not here.”

Bags... where did he put the bags? Bae's bedroom.

_Forgetful idiot!_

He bumped his father's shoulder on his way out of the room-

And then Malcolm's hand was grasping his arm.

“Will you calm down?” he all but shouted in his face.

Rumple took a large step into the corridor, pulling his arm but Malcolm was stronger than him.

“Let me go!”

“I am trying to have a conversation-”

“I said-”

“And you're blowing this out of proportion-”

“I said let – me – _go_!”

His arm slipped from his father's grip. Somewhere downstairs, he heard Belle screaming and he didn't understand why until he took one step back too many, without realizing he'd come too close to the stairs.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

The morning went by too slowly as far as Neal was concerned, yet the moment Mr. Hader finally seemed to accept that the class was over – five minutes after the bell because god forbid something as trivial as time came between him and his lectures – Neal didn't feel like moving from his chair.

No doubt dad would be outside, as always, waiting at a reasonable distance not to embarrass him too much in front of his new friends, ready to escort him home. Once they got there, though, he had no idea what to expect. It was bound to be bad news. A lengthy speech about why he'd made a mistake and they would have to leave town again sooner than expected. Dad would say he was sorry that it had to end this way, that he miscalculated how safe they would be, and that maybe this time they'd get lucky.

Neal would nod and pack because there was nothing to be done about it. If mom had found them, it would be only a matter of time before their lives were turned upside down, no matter what the Sheriff said. Dad was not to blame for this, he was doing the best he could given their impossible situation.

Then why the hell was he feeling so angry?

“You gonna sit there all afternoon?”

Neal looked up at Graham and Mulan, both packed and ready to leave and urging him to come along as if they couldn't move on without him. For the first time, Neal understood that he liked the both of them. He'd left a lot of friends behind in Boston, people he'd known most of his life, but somehow the thought of losing these two that he knew for less than a month hurt. Dad had told him to make friends but Neal should've known better. Friendship didn't last when you had this nomad, unstable life where you could be expected to pack up and leave the moment things got complicated. They'd promise to call or email or whatever, that never lasted long. Truth was, he was as good as forgotten the moment he left town.

“You don't look so good,” Mulan said.

Neal forced himself into motion, shoving things in his backpack and mumbling, “I'm tired,” under his breath. Regardless of how this was going to go, it would still be safer for him if they walked out together.

“Hader really outdid himself today. You know what you need?” Graham said, with typical liveliness.

 _Someone else's life_ , he didn't say.

“You need a break. We've been meaning to show you the woods and I think today-”

“I can't today. Can we go?” Neal cut in, his voice weak but harsh enough to make Graham go quiet.

Mulan seemed to notice something was off but walked out without pushing. Graham's silence, on the other hand, was filled with unasked questions and concern. He knew better than to ask but he still wanted to.

His father was not outside, which was unusual but not necessarily an unwelcome change. Maybe all those worries had been pointless, maybe he was beginning to relax.

“Your dad's late,” Mulan said. “Weird.”

Neal shrugged. Dad not being there was actually a good sign, and if it wasn't... well, at least he'd get a few more minutes of normalcy before his world crumbled.

“Neal! Hey! Over here!”

He saw Belle waving at him over the heads of the other children. Given that some of the boys were actually taller than her, she wasn't easy to spot. He trudged toward her, Mulan and Graham following suit without being asked to.

“Hey, how was school?” she asked, trying to smile.

And a voice in his mind whispered, “This isn't right,” because he already knew what an honest smile looked like on her face, and it wasn't like that. She was making an effort to look pleasant.

Mulan said, “Please tell me you're here to take over as our History teacher.”

“I'm afraid I'm not qualified for that, Mulan.”

“Neither is Mr. Hader, but he still does it.”

“Actually, I just came by to pick Neal up.”

Neal stared at her, suddenly finding himself unable to move.

“Why? Where's dad?”

“He's fine,” she answered, automatically, though he hadn't asked that yet. “He couldn't make it, so he asked me to walk you home.”

Mulan scoffed. “What? To protect him from all the thieves and the-”

“Mulan, not now,” Graham said, and Neal wondered if the softness in his voice was so he wouldn't be startled. Somehow, Graham understood the situation in a way that she didn't. He'd been patronized enough times to know when something was wrong. The girl was clever enough to heed his advice and be quiet.

“What happened?” Neal asked.

“Nothing serious. I'll tell you when we get home.”

Neal swayed forward as if ready to take a step, but then stopped. If he didn't think his mother was in town he might have gone along with Belle without batting an eye. However, things had changed as of that morning. What did he really know about Belle? Did he really trust this perfect stranger?

“I think I'd rather wait here,” he decided.

“Neal, honey, your father can't pick you up today,” she insisted, in a gentle, almost motherly way. “He, uhn... he had to go to the hospital-”

“He _what_?”

“He's fine,” she added, quickly. “It was just a sprained ankle, nothing to worry about. But he won't be able to pick you up so he asked me-”

“ _How_? When did this happen?”

“He fell down the stairs, but he's-”

“Who pushed him?”

Belle's words died. He didn't understand why until he realized the question that he'd just let slip.

Without saying a word, Graham held on to his hand and gave it a squeeze. “It's okay, Neal.”

“No one pushed him, Neal,” Belle finally said. “It was an accident. He wasn't looking and he tripped. He'll be home in an hour or so.”

Neal could feel his heart racing.

 _I was kind of a jerk to him this morning_ , he realized, all of a sudden.

“Would it be okay if we went with you guys?” Graham offered.

“Yeah, so he won't have to wait alone,” Mulan added, looking worried for the first time.

Belle opened her mouth, probably to say no. Malcolm didn't like visitors and dad wouldn't appreciate other people knowing where they lived. Then, she said, “You know what, I think that's a good idea. No reason why you should be alone.” She placed a hand on his cheek and smiled with more confidence. “And there's really nothing to worry about, Neal. You'll see. Your dad will be home in no time.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Storybrooke Hospital was a small building that was severely understaffed. The one doctor on call was away performing surgery and so Rumple was tended to by a severe looking nurse who told him to keep his foot elevated while he waited. He hid himself behind a magazine in the waiting room so that no one would try to strike conversation, there was nothing he'd hate more than having to make small talk about his injury and, more to the point, how it'd happened – though, at this point, he'd gotten quite skilled at coming up with excuses for his wounds.

Not that he needed an excuse today. He'd fallen down the stairs because he'd been too angry to see where he was going. That he wasn't paying attention because he was screaming his lungs out at his father, though, that he didn't feel like relaying to the doctor or anyone.

It was past four o'clock when the doctor finally came to see him, the x-ray in his hand, and claimed his ankle, as Rumple had suspected, was sprained.

“You got lucky,” said Dr. Whale, looking a lot more professional than Rumple thought possible. Last time he'd seen him, an angry-looking brunette had been using the bouquet he'd given her to chase Whale away. “Judging by the bruises, that was a nasty fall.”

Rumple didn't feel very lucky but he had to agree. A large section of his right shoulder had quickly turned purple and there was a lump on his forehead that only ever hurt when he thought too much about it. He could've had a concussion, or worse.

“Your ankle should be fine in a couple of weeks as long as you don't put too much weight on it,” the doctor said. “Driving might be complicated, though.”

“I'm not a driver,” Rumple said. “That was seasonal work. I'm cleaning the pawnshop now. You know, boxing junk.”

“Can you do that while sitting down?”

“I don't think I can.”

“You might have to, unless you want to aggravate things. I recommend staying home for a couple of days, keeping that leg up.”

The doctor saw the pained look on his face.

“Look, I know your old man is a pain,” he said, “but it's best to handle these things well at the beginning, especially since you already need a cane. Keep pushing it and a few days off work will be the least of your problems.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Besides, I'm sure the old man is more understanding with his own kin,” Whale said, giving him an encouraging smile.

“I'm not holding my breath,” Rumple said, watching the doctor jot down a prescription for painkillers.

“How's his heart doing, by the way?” Whale asked.

Rumple answered, “Fine,” without giving it much thought.

“That's good to hear. I have the feeling he downplays it whenever I ask him about it.”

He nodded, absentmindedly. Then, he stopped, Whale's words finally reaching him. Rumple tried not to look too puzzled when Whale handed the prescription and said, “And tell the old man to stop avoiding me. He should follow up on these things.”

With another nod, Rumple said goodbye and waited for the nurse to bandage his ankle. She said they could get him clutches if walking became too difficult on a cane alone but he insisted he'd manage. Perhaps it wasn't clever to be prideful at this point but there was only so much humiliation he could take in a day.

Coming up to the front desk to settle the bill was perhaps more painful than the sprained ankle itself – and just like that, the money Moe French had paid him that morning was gone, leaving only five dollars behind. That wouldn't cover groceries, let alone cellphones.

_How am I going to explain this to Bae?_

He should've been more careful.

As soon as he limped out of the hospital, ready to start his miserable walk back to the house, he saw his father standing near his car, a gorgeous Cadillac that he loved more than life itself. That was quite a surprise. If it was up to Malcolm, he'd have stayed sprawled on the floor, which, given the current state of his wallet, might have been the wiser solution. Belle was the one who rushed to him, horrified, saying, “Oh my god, are you hurt? No, don't get up, I'll call an ambulance- of course you need one! You hit your head pretty hard, I could hear it!”

In the end, he'd agreed to a taxi if Belle did him the favor of picking Bae up from school. Malcolm had watched the exchange from the second floor without saying a word. Then, as Belle helped him off the floor, he'd asked, “Then I suppose the argument is postponed?” with much less confidence than before. Rumple had shouted over his shoulder for his father to go to hell.

And yet, here he was, looking considerably less smug than Rumple expected him to. Despite the anger, the first thought that came through his head was, _He looks healthy to me_.

“Did they fix you up?” Malcolm asked.

“You can't park here.”

Rumple nodded at the sign indicating a handicapped parking space.

“I'm waiting for you. I think a cane applies.”

“I'm walking home,” Rumple said, and turned away.

“Oh, please, by all means,” father said. “Hop home on your one good foot. That's a clever idea.” He opened the passenger door. “Get in, Junior. There's being proud and there's being daft, and you're coming dangerously close to the latter.”

Rumple felt the urge to snap at him again and then say that he was doing fine without his help, thank you very much, see you at the house. However, and it physically hurt to admit it, his father had a point. If his ankle got any worse, he wouldn't be able to afford the hospital bill.

Feeling a little like a petulant child, he got in the car and crossed his arms.

The Cadillac still ran smoothly for an old car. Malcolm probably wasted a large portion of his fortune making sure it was up to standards. He enjoyed driving a lot and, as long as he was sober, he was a good driver, perhaps the best Rumple knew. Today, though, he was stirring the wheel lazily and didn't go over 30 mph.

Without giving him the benefit of a warning, Rumple asked, “When did you have a heart attack?”

Malcolm tensed visibly but didn't even glance at him.

“Whale's going to tell every last soul on the planet, isn't he?”

“He just asked about your heart. Said you should stop avoiding him.”

“I'll avoid that quack for the rest of my days. I'm doing fine.”

Rumple observed him for a moment longer, then decided to drop the subject.

“We both said things,” Malcolm stated, five minute later.

Rumple looked at him but his father had his eyes on the road.

“Are you trying to apologize to me?” he asked, not very impressed at the effort – or lack thereof.

Malcolm took a moment to answer, “I'm admitting that we both lost our temper.”

“One of us lost his temper first.”

“Was it the one who beat a man with his cane?”

Rumple didn't answer but thought, _Very well, point for Malcolm_.

“How did you know when to pick me up?” Rumple asked, thinking it was safer to stray away from the previous argument.

“The nurse called earlier to ask if I'd be handling the bill. I said I wouldn't.”

He paused, as if expecting his son to protest. Rumple didn't say a word.

“Anyway, I asked when you were being discharged and she told me.”

“They can't just volunteer that information to anyone.”

“I'm family.”

“Right. I keep forgetting. Then again, so do you.”

Malcolm shook his head. “You just can't say 'thank you', can you?”

“ _Thank you_ ,” he all but spat. “How very _thoughtful_ of you.”

Malcolm let out a low growling but didn't take the bait. He started driving faster.

“So that's it, you're leaving?” he said, after a few blocks.

“Of course I'm not leaving, I can barely walk,” Rumple said.

“Changed your mind, did you?”

There it was, the smugness. Rumple felt his blood begin to boil again and he didn't like the feel of it, the way it made him want to lose control and do something reckless. Unless he pulled himself together, he might end up in a situation he would later regret. Just a few hours earlier, he'd been ready to sentence his teenage son to a life as a drifter because of old wounds.

“Stop the car.”

“You're not walking home-”

“No, I have a proposition for you.”

Malcolm frowned slightly, but pulled to the curb. “I'm listening.”

“As luck would have it, we're stuck with each other for the foreseeable future. Until I manage to get back on my feet-”

“Quite literally...”

“-or you get bored of bullying me, we have to share that house, so I propose the following.” He looked his father in the eye. “Whatever we have to say to each other, let's do it in this car, right now, and then we'll go home and suck it up until I can finally leave. There's too much bad blood between us that we can have explosions like that every other week and I don't want my son to have to deal with this again.”

“Again?”

“Do you agree or not?” he added, hoping his father would let it slide.

Malcolm thought about it. Then he said, “Very well. I think you're being ungrateful and unnecessarily _bitchy_ since you moved in. You act as though I had a duty to help you and no matter what I do, you act like it's a direct offense to you.”

Rumple tried, “If this is about the suit-”

“I'm not done,” Malcolm said, soft but poignant.

Rumple tried not to look too impatient. He'd been the one to tell him to get everything off his chest, he should've known there would be a long list of complaints.

“Your marriage was a colossal failure,” Malcolm continued. “And I dare say you wish you'd never gone with that girl in the first place, and that's on you, but somehow you've found a way in your head to blame me for everything that went wrong in your life. I think you need to grow a pair and start taking responsibility for the mess that your life has become, instead of pointing fingers.”

With that, Malcolm went quiet. There was a challenge in his eyes, almost demanding that his son _dared_ contradict him.

Rumple asked, “Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“I think you only offered to help me so that can you hold that over my head,” he said, his voice unexpectedly firm and cold despite that hot, angry feeling in his chest. “And I don't know if you're angry at me or you just enjoy doing that to people. You had no problem holding Moe French's debt over his daughter's head just to mess with-”

“I should've expected you to bring that girl into this,” Malcolm said. “Which is something else, the way you're getting cozy with the help-”

“Are you done or not?” Rumple asked. “Because you had your chance to speak.”

Malcolm gestured for him to go on.

“Whatever reason you're helping me, whether this is a power trip to you-” Malcolm made a sound as if ready to interrupt, so Rumple raised his voice. “ _Whether this is a power trip to you_ or you're just angry that I didn't listen to you fifteen years ago, it doesn't matter. Stop acting like you're my beloved father, who's taking me in out of the goodness of your heart. You ran me and my family out of town once and you'd do it again if you had the chance.”

“I offered you a way out-”

“You offered me a below-market check, but that's besides the point. You washed your hands off me in that moment and, _yes_ , I know that every poor choice I made from that moment on is on me, but you are my father. It _is_ your duty to help me and you should've done it fifteen years ago.”

Malcolm was shaking his head, clearly he wanted to say something acidic.

“Aunt Goldie helped me,” Rumple said, with a sorrowful note to his voice.

Malcolm grumbled, “Silly old Violet,” like his sister's name left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I was always more her son than yours,” he finished, leaving that statement to hang in the air between them.

After a moment, his father said, “Well, are you glad that you got that out of your chest, you ungrateful prick?”

Rumple didn't know about glad. He thought his heart might feel lighter after revolving around all that bitterness and spilling it out, but it felt just as heavy, except that now it was all tossed and turned and thrown out in the open. An open wound for his father to see and do absolutely nothing about.

“It is what it is,” Rumple said.

“Then can we get to the 'suck it up' part?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Malcolm started the car. He looked angrier than ever. “Maybe we should've skipped the talk and just done that.”

Though Rumple didn't say anything, he couldn't help but feel that perhaps his father had a point.

 

 

 


End file.
